The Port of Missing Men | Page 2

the report of
the secret agents whom he had lately despatched to Paris on an errand
of peculiar delicacy. The agents had failed in their mission, and Von
Stroebel was not tolerant of failure. Perhaps if he had known that
within a week the tapers would burn about his bier in Saint Stephen's
Cathedral, at Vienna, while his life and public services would be
estimated in varying degrees of admiration or execration by the
newspapers of Europe, he might not have dealt so harshly with his

hard-worked spies.
It was not often that the light in the old man's eyes was as gentle as now.
He had sent his secret agents away and was to return to Vienna on the
following day. The young man whom he now entertained in his
apartments received his whole attention. He picked up the card which
lay on the table and scrutinized it critically, while his eyes lighted with
sudden humor.
The card was a gentleman's _carte de visite_, and bore the name John
Armitage.
"I believe this is the same alias you were using when I saw you in Paris.
Where did you get it?" demanded the minister.
"I rather liked the sound of it, so I had the cards made," replied the
young man. "Besides, it's English, and I pass readily for an Englishman.
I have quite got used to it."
"Which is not particularly creditable; but it's probably just as well so."
He drew closer to the table, and his keen old eyes snapped with the
intentness of his thought. The hands he clasped on the table were those
of age, and it was pathetically evident that he folded them to hide their
slight palsy.
"I hope you are quite well," said Armitage kindly.
"I am not. I am anything but well. I am an old man, and I have had no
rest for twenty years."
"It is the penalty of greatness. It is Austria's good fortune that you have
devoted yourself to the affairs of government. I have read--only to-day,
in the _Contemporary Review_--an admirable tribute to your sagacity
in handling the Servian affair. Your work was masterly. I followed it
from the beginning with deepest interest."
The old gentleman bowed half-unconsciously, for his thoughts were far

away, as the vague stare in his small, shrewd eyes indicated.
"But you are here for rest--one comes to Geneva at this season for
nothing else."
"What brings you here?" asked the old man with sudden energy. "If the
papers you gave me in Paris are forgeries and you are waiting--"
"Yes; assuming that, what should I be waiting for?"
"If you are waiting for events--for events! If you expect something to
happen!"
Armitage laughed at the old gentleman's earnest manner, asked if he
might smoke, and lighted a cigarette.
"Waiting doesn't suit me. I thought you understood that. I was not born
for the waiting list. You see, I have strong hands--and my wits are--let
us say--average!"
Von Stroebel clasped his own hands together more firmly and bent
toward Armitage searchingly.
"Is it true"--he turned again and glanced about--"is it positively true
that the Archduke Karl is dead?"
"Yes; quite true. There is absolutely no doubt of it," said Armitage,
meeting the old man's eyes steadily.
"The report that he is still living somewhere in North America is
persistent. We hear it frequently in Vienna; I have heard it since you
told me that story and gave me those papers in Paris last year."
"I am aware of that," replied John Armitage; "but I told you the truth.
He died in a Canadian lumber camp. We were in the north hunting--you
may recall that he was fond of that sort of thing."
"Yes, I remember; there was nothing else he did so well," growled Von
Stroebel.

"And the packet I gave you--"
The old man nodded.
"--that packet contained the Archduke Karl's sworn arraignment of his
wife. It is of great importance, indeed, to Francis, his worthless son, or
supposed son, who may present himself for coronation one of these
days!"
"Not with Karl appearing in all parts of the world, never quite dead,
never quite alive--and his son Frederick Augustus lurking with him in
the shadows. Who knows whether they are dead?"
"I am the only person on earth in a position to make that clear," said
John Armitage.
"Then you should give me the documents."
"No; I prefer to keep them. I assure you that I have sworn proof of the
death of the Archduke Karl, and of his son Frederick Augustus. Those
papers are in a box in the Bronx Loan and Trust Company, in New
York City."
"I should have them; I must have them!" thundered the old man.
"In due season; but not just now. In fact, I have regretted